Maskerade - Terry Pratchett [2]
He turned the page. And then he turned back. And then he read on. At one point he took a ruler out of his drawer and looked at it thoughtfully.
He opened his drinks cabinet. The bottle tinkled cheerfully on the edge of the glass as he tried to pour himself a drink.
Then he stared out of the window at the Opera House on the other side of the road. A small figure was brushing the steps.
And then he said, “Oh, my.”
Finally he went to the door and said, “Could you come in here, Mr. Cropper?”
His chief printer entered, clutching a sheaf of proofs. “We’re going to have to get Mr. Cripslock to engrave page II again,” he said mournfully. “He’s spelled ‘famine’ with seven letters—”
“Read this,” said Goatberger.
“I was just off to lunch—”
“Read this.”
“Guild agreement says—”
“Read this and see if you still have an appetite.”
Mr. Cropper sat down with bad grace and glanced at the first page.
Then he turned to the second page.
After a while he opened the desk drawer and pulled out a ruler, which he looked at thoughtfully.
“You’ve just read about Bananana Soup Surprise?” said Goatberger.
“Yes!”
“You wait till you get to Spotted Dick.”
“Well, my old granny used to make Spotted Dick—”
“Not to this recipe,” said Goatberger, with absolute certainty.
Cropper fumbled through the pages. “Blimey! Do you think any of this stuff works?”
“Who cares? Go down to the Guild right now and hire all the engravers that’re free. Preferably elderly ones.”
“But I’ve still got the Grune, June, August and Spune predictions for next year’s Almanac to—”
“Forget them. Use some old ones.”
“People’ll notice.”
“They’ve never noticed before,” said Mr. Goatberger. “You know the drill. Astounding Rains of Curry in Klatch, Amazing Death of the Seriph of Ee, Plague of Wasps in Howondaland. This is a lot more important.”
He stared unseeing out of the window again.
“Considerably more important.”
And he dreamed the dream of all those who publish books, which was to have so much gold in your pockets that you would have to employ two people just to hold your trousers up.
The huge, be-columned, gargoyle-haunted face of Ankh-Morpork’s Opera House was there, in front of Agnes Nitt.
She stopped. At least, most of Agnes stopped. There was a lot of Agnes. It took some time for outlying regions to come to rest.
Well, this was it. At last. She could go in, or she could go away. It was what they called a life choice. She’d never had one of those before.
Finally, after standing still for long enough for a pigeon to consider the perching possibilities of her huge and rather sad black floppy hat, she climbed the steps.
A man was theoretically sweeping them. What he was in fact doing was moving the dirt around with a broom, to give it a change of scenery and a chance to make new friends. He was dressed in a long coat that was slightly too small for him, and had a black beret perched incongruously on spiky black hair.
“Excuse me,” said Agnes.
The effect was electric. He turned around, tangled one foot with the other, and collapsed onto his broom.
Agnes’s hand flew to her mouth, and then she reached down.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!”
The hand had that clammy feel that makes a holder think longingly of soap. He pulled it away quickly, pushed his greasy hair out of his eyes and gave her a terrified smile; he had what Nanny Ogg called an underdone face, its features rubbery and pale.
“No trouble miss!”
“Are you all right?”
He scrambled up, got the broom somehow tangled between his knees, and sat down again sharply.
“Er…shall I hold the broom?” said Agnes helpfully.
She pulled it out of the tangle. He got up again, after a couple of false starts.
“Do you work for the Opera House?” said Agnes.
“Yes miss!”
“Er, can you tell me where I have to go for the auditions?”
He looked around wildly. “Stage door!” he said. “I’ll show you!” The words came out in a rush, as if he had to line them up and fire them all in one go before they had time to wander off.
He snatched the broom out of her hands and set off down the